Shogun

over them without saying a word. He stared down at Blackthome through rheumy eyes, his face warted. “Oh, Blessed Virgin, the senor is real. Who art thou? I’m .?.?. I’m Friar .?.?. Friar Domingo .?.?. Domingo .?.?. Domingo of the Sacred .?.?. the Sacred Order of St. Francis .?.?. the Order?.?.?.” and then for a while his words became a jumble of Japanese and Latin and Spanish. His head twitched and he wiped away the ever present spittle that dribbled to his chin. “The senor is real?”

“Yes, I’m real.” Blackthorne eased himself up.

The priest muttered another Hail Mary, the tears coursing his cheeks. He kissed the cross repeatedly and would have got down on his knees if there had been space. Bulldog shook his neighbor awake. Both squatted and made just enough room for the priest to sit.

“By the Blessed St. Francis, my prayers have been answered. Thou, thou, thou, I thought that I was seeing another apparition, senor, a ghost. Yes, an evil spirit. I’ve seen so many—so many—how long is the senor here? It’s hard for a body to see in the gloom and my eyes, they’re not good.?.?.?. How long?”

“Yesterday. And you?”

“I don’t know, senor. A long time. I’m put here in September—it was in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred ninety-eight.”

“It’s May now. Sixteen hundred.”

“Sixteen hundred?”

A moaning cry distracted the monk. He got up and picked his way over the bodies like a spider, encouraging a man here, touching another there, his Japanese fluent. He could not find the dying man so he droned the last rites to that part of the cell and blessed everyone and no one minded.

“Come with me, my son.”

Without waiting, the monk hobbled down the cage, through the mass of men, into the gloom. Blackthorne hesitated, not wanting to leave his place. Then he got up and followed. After ten paces he looked back. His place had vanished. It seemed impossible that he had ever been there at all.

He continued down the length of the hut. In the far corner was, incredibly, an open space. Just enough room for a small man to lie down in. It contained a few pots and bowls and an ancient straw mat.

Father Domingo stepped through the men into the space and beckoned him. The surrounding Japanese watched silently, letting Blackthorne pass.

“They are my flock, senor. They are all my sons in the Blessed Lord Jesus. I’ve converted so many here—this one’s John, and here’s Mark and Methuselah.?.?.?.” The priest stopped for breath. “I’m so tired. Tired. I .?.?. must, I must?.?.?.” His words trailed off and he slept.

At dusk more food arrived. When Blackthorne began to get up, one of the nearby Japanese motioned him to stay and brought him a well-filled bowl. Another man gently patted the priest awake, offering the food.

“Iye,” the old man said, shaking his head, a smile on his face, and pushed the bowl back into the man’s hands.

“Iye Farddah-sama.”

The priest allowed himself to be persuaded and ate a little, then got up, his joints creaking, and handed his bowl to one of those in the middle row. This man touched the priest’s hand to his forehead and he was blessed.

“I’m so pleased to see another of my own kind,” the priest said, sitting beside Blackthorne again, his peasant voice thick and sibilant. He pointed weakly to the other end of the cell block. “One of my flock said the senor used the word ‘pilot,’ ‘anjin’? The senor is a pilot?”

“Yes.”

“There are others of the senor’s crew here?”

“No, I’m alone. Why are you here?”

“If the senor is alone—the senor came from Manila?”

“No. I’ve never been to Asia before,” Blackthorne said carefully, his Spanish excellent. “This was my first voyage as pilot. I was .?.?. I was outward bound. Why are you here?”

“Jesuits put me here, my son. Jesuits and their filthy lies. The senor was outward bound? Thou art not Spanish, no—nor Portuguese?.?.?.” The monk peered at him suspiciously and Blackthorne was surrounded by his reeking breath. “Was the ship Portuguese? Tell the truth, before God!”

“No, Father. It was not Portuguese. Before God!”

“Oh, Blessed Virgin, thank you! Please forgive me, senor. I was afraid—I’m old and stupid and diseased. Thy ship was Spanish out of where? I’m so glad—where is the senor from originally? Spanish Flanders? Or the Duchy of Brandenburg perhaps? Some part of our dominions in Germania? Oh, it’s so good to talk my blessed mother tongue again! Was the senor shipwrecked like us? Then foully thrown into this jail, falsely accused by those devil Jesuits? May God curse them and show them the error of their treachery!” His eyes glittered fiercely. “The senor said he has never been to Asia before?”

“No.”

“If the senor has never been to Asia before, then he will be like a child in the wilderness. Yes, there’s so much to tell! Does the senor know that Jesuits are merely traders, gun runners, and usurers? That they control all the silk trade here, all trade with China? That the annual Black Ship is worth a million in gold? That they’ve forced His Holiness, the Pope, to grant them total power over Asia—them and their dogs, the Portuguese? That all other religions are forbidden here? That Jesuits deal in gold, buying and selling for profit—for themselves and the heathen—against the direct orders of His Holiness, Pope Clement, of King Philip, and against the laws of this land? That they secretly smuggled guns into Japan for Christian kings here, inciting them to rebellion? That they meddle in politics and pimp for the kings, lie and cheat and bear false witness against us! That their Father Superior himself sent a secret message to our Spanish Viceroy in Luzon asking him for conquistadores to conquer the land—they begged for a Spanish invasion to cover more Portuguese mistakes. All our troubles can be put at their threshold, senor. It’s the Jesuits who have lied and cheated and spread poison against Spain and our beloved King Philip! Their lies put me here and caused twenty-six Holy Fathers to be martyred! They think that just because I was a peasant once, I don’t understand .?.?. but I can read and write, senor, I can read and write! I was one of his Excellency’s secretaries, the Viceroy. They think we Franciscans don’t understand?.?.?.” At this point he broke into another ranting jumble of Spanish and Latin.

Blackthorne’s spirit had been revived, his curiosity agog with what the priest had said. What guns? What gold? What trade? What Black Ship? A million? What invasion? What Christian kings?

Aren’t you cheating the poor sick man? he asked himself. He thinks you’re friend, not enemy.

I haven’t lied to him.

But haven’t you implied you’re friend?

I answered him directly.

But you volunteered nothing?

No.

Is that fair?

That’s the first rule of survival in enemy waters: volunteer nothing.

The monk’s tantrum grew apace. The nearby Japanese shifted uneasily. One of them got up and shook the priest gently and spoke to him. Father Domingo gradually came out of his fit, his eyes cleared. He looked at Blackthorne with recognition, replied to the Japanese, and calmed the rest.

“So sorry, senor,” he said breathlessly. “They—they thought I was angry against—against the senor. God forgive my foolish rage! It was just—que va, Jesuits come from hell, along with heretics and heathens. I can tell you much about them.” The monk wiped the spittle off his chin and tried to calm himself. He pressed his chest to ease the pain there. “The senor was saying? Thy ship, it was cast ashore?”

“Yes. In a way. We came aground,” Blackthorne replied. He eased his legs carefully. The men who were watching and listening gave him more room. One got up and motioned him to stretch out. “Thanks,” he said at once. “Oh, how do you say ‘thank you,’ Father?”

“?‘Domo.’ Sometimes you say ‘arigato.’ A woman has to be very polite, senor. She says ‘arigato gozaimashita.’?”

“Thank you. What’s his name?” Blackthorne indicated the man who had got up.

“That’s Gonzalez.”

“But what’s his Japanese name?”